


Come Be the Love I Can Hold

by butch_snufkin



Category: Jeeves & Wooster, Jeeves - P. G. Wodehouse
Genre: Hurt/Comfort, Love Confessions, M/M, Mild Injury, aunt dahlia is an lgbt ally, did i project? perhaps. pining time., i wrote this all at 3 am and probably none of it is remotely coherent, jeeves really need a nap, op makes too many wilde references, short-term arguments, uncle charlie is gay and i will never headcanon anything else
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-31
Updated: 2020-01-31
Packaged: 2021-02-25 14:27:14
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,100
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22497580
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/butch_snufkin/pseuds/butch_snufkin
Summary: Come and wake me, come be the love I can hold, now.Storybook love leaves me cold, now.
Relationships: Reginald Jeeves/Bertram "Bertie" Wooster
Comments: 17
Kudos: 124





	Come Be the Love I Can Hold

**Author's Note:**

> why am i on this earth? just to suffer? this fic took me almost two months and i only edited half of it. which half, you may ask? i'll leave that for you to find out ig
> 
> also the italics didn't FUCKING WORK so just use your imagination and italicize the words as you see fit

Another year had come and gone, and on the first of January Mr. Wooster insisted I take a holiday to the countryside to visit my uncle Charlie and the rest of my family at Deverill Hall.

"Are you quite certain you won't have any need of me, sir?" I had asked while fluffing up his bed pillows.

He smiled quietly, with a tinge of sadness around the corners of his mouth. It was exceedingly out of character for him, and nearly caused me to stop and give him better attention. I resisted the urge and gave him nothing more than a quick glance. He sloshed about the few drops of tea left in his cup, making a miniature whirlpool before swallowing it up. I pretended not to see the expression clearly emphasizing the fact that something was not sitting well with him.

"Yes. Of course, I'll be perfectly fine here. There's not much to be done anyway. I mean, I haven't got anyone itching to see me, have I?" His voice was laced with a slight cynicism, though I suspected it was there only to cover up the hurt that was undeniably lying beneath.

Mr. Wooster did not often talk of his family, aside from the ones which we'd already had unfortunate run-ins with. I knew his parents had died early on, leaving him an orphan along with his sister, who was promptly shipped off to a girls' boarding school. It made me burn to think of the strict indifference Mrs. Gregson and Mrs. Travers had treated him with. He had never told me this bit of information directly, but it was obvious he was never seen as having much, if any, potential, instead being shifted about from household to household until his caretakers got bored of him again.

I didn't know what had become of his sister - Mr. Wooster had mentioned once that she was in India and returning to England, though he never shared more than that, and to my knowledge, never saw her. I did not dream of taking the liberty of asking why. The two of them most likely hadn't seen one another since they were very young.

"Very good, sir. When will you be expecting me back?"

He had returned the empty tea cup to me and settled in for the night, letting out a long, exhausted sigh as he relaxed back against his pillows. "Whenever you like, Jeeves." He spoke this so quietly I had to strain to hear him, and momentarily wondered if he had actually spoken at all.

I ached to comfort him, and nearly invited him to come along with me, but it wouldn't have been proper. Presently it was clear he would rather be alone, so I flicked off the lights and closed his bedroom door as gently as I was able, and attempted to purge my mind of the shuddering breath he took after he thought I was gone.

* * *

Mr. Wooster slept the next day for a considerable amount of time, even longer than average. Although I had been prepared to depart at 7:30 A.M., I stayed behind, wondering if I could find enough tasks to busy myself with until he awoke. I couldn't explain it, but I felt I had to greet him good morning once more, tell him that I would be there for him when he needed me. He could have demanded my presence and even if I was on the other side of the world, I would go to him.

After polishing the silver three times, I concluded that my wait should come to an end. I brewed a cup of tea which I left near the stove, so that he could reheat it when he liked. I considered writing a short note for him, but thought better of it. Just as I reshelved the tea leaves, the kitchen door creaked open slowly. Mr. Wooster entered there with red rimming his eyes and a robe around his shoulders. He looked shocked to see me.

"Jeeves!" He cried - at least i assumed he meant for it to come out in such a way. His voice was scratchy and low, thick with sleep and something else. "What are you still doing here?"

"Forgive me, sir. I thought I should prolong my exit until you were awake." I handed him the tea, and he took it, looking very puzzled, like it was taking him rather a long time to realize what was going on.

He knit his eyebrows together. "Why?" And for that, I had no answer that made sense. I said nothing. He bit his lip. "Honestly, Jeeves, you don't need to stick around to do all this. I am perfectly capable of looking after myself." The words were callous, completely unmatched by his slumped posture and heavy eyes.

I opened my mouth to respond. What I was planning to say, I didn't know. Perhaps another apology, but he spoke up again before I could find out.

"It'd be best if you were off now. You have a train to catch, haven't you?" He pulled his shoulders closer to him as he spoke, somewhat akin to a turtle retreating into its shell. His voice remained barely audible, but carried an ever-sharpening point. "As I've told you, I don't need you around."

I hardened my resolve, showing no effect of this statement that had pierced me ruthlessly. He swept his gaze over my face, as if he were searching for any indication that he had momentarily broken my spirits. After finding none, he quickly revered his eyes to the tea in his hands. He didn't drink, only stared into the brew with a sickly expression.

Although he wasn't watching, I bowed my head slightly in acceptance and strode stiffly out of the kitchen, collecting my valises and hat and leaving apartment 3A without a single hesitation.

* * *

He was all I could think about on the train, and in the cab, and even as I walked up the stairs to Deverill Hall I found myself pondering over our final moments together. Though we had engaged in disagreements in the past, Mr. Wooster had never spoken to me in such a way. We maintained relatively good spirits with one another, even during a few uncomfortable periods when we were temporarily separate. I did my utmost not to conclude anything that may be incorrect, but the manner in which he behaved implied that he was not upset at anything I had done, but some greater problem he couldn't solve.

The door had been opened and two maids scurried out to collect my luggage before I had even lifted my hand away from the doorbell. They both offered a polite "good afternoon, Mr. Jeeves" as they passed by, and promptly disappeared up a flight of stairs, presumably to wherever I'd be staying. A third maid shoved between them on the landing, her black shoes clacking on the hardwood floor at a greater volume than acceptable for a servant. She caught sight of me closing the door as I stepped inside and gave a wave. It was my cousin, Queenie Silversmith, head parlourmaid at Deverill Hall.

She was a short girl who had stopped growing somewhere around her thirteenth birthday. A stark contrast against my own height, which I was vividly aware of as she clasped my hands and grinned up at me. The two of us must have made quite the mismatched pair as we stood together in the foyer. She informed me that she had gotten on break for the next hour, and that I just had to say hello to her father. I was more than satisfied to let her fill the silence as we made our way to the servants' quarters, her arm hooked with mine.

My thoughts continued to drift back to my poor Mr. Wooster, quite alone at Berkeley Mansions. He had refused to employ a temporary valet in my absence, and although I had never viewed him as helpless, there was a great many things he couldn't do on his own. 

Unfortunately, I had not been listening to Queenie during our walk, though I had caught enough bits and pieces to understand she was lamenting about her employer, Dame Daphne Winkworth. It is not seemly of servants to speak against their employers in open air where anyone might overhear, but Queenie seemed unconcerned. I must admit I did sympathize with her, as I too had endured several meetings with the Dame in question. The old woman was a close friend of Mrs. Agatha Gregson, and the two women shared a great deal in the way of bulldogish severity. 

"She's on edge nearly all the time, you know," Queenie continued, swishing her skirts about absentmindedly. "We've never had a worker shortage like this before. Daddy says they're all jumping ship because other jobs are paying better."

That sounded familiar enough. While most butlers these days were older men who had been working their whole lives, younger employees such as groundskeepers, valets, and maids had all come into the trade early only to be turned down. I'd even heard of schools opening, meant to teach the idle rich how to darn their socks and cook breakfast. The Junior Ganymede had already suffered great losses: valets quitting their positions to peruse careers in agriculture, or journalism. Old butlers died and were never replaced by their employers. Some whispered that such jobs would no longer exist in several decades.

"I might not be working here much longer myself, since Edgar and I are to be married soon, and we've saved up enough to rent a place in the city."

She seemed quite pleased about this, although I expected her situation was not as settled as she described it to be. Ever since we were young, she possessed a childlike spirit-perhaps a but naive, but ultimately having good intentions.

The servants at Deverill, most of whom I'd known since I was a boy, were more than decent to me, and always denied my offers of help. The cooks and butlers were the oldest among them and functioned almost as a second family to me. My first family was never much to write home about, as it were. My older brothers made up most of my memories, as my father passed before I could understand anything at all. After his death, my mother became distant to us, and followed him a handful of years later.

These days I had a few close relatives I remained in contact with, leaving an awkward silence in what was left of my immediate family that no one was brave enough to break. Occasionally I saw Mabel with her husband, Mr. Biffen, and Queenie and my uncle Charlie whenever I visited Deverill Hall. Above all, I considered Mr. Wooster to be the closest family I had. The two of us bonded over a few shared complaints of menacing aunts and absent parents. Of course, I would never dream of bringing up the matter to him. When presented with a topic so personal, I periodically indulge him in a heart-to-heart chats but more often than not I remain private about my early life.

In reality, I had spent a great deal of time at Deverill Hall in my youth. I knew the layout of the house and how far you could walk in the garden before the property barriers ended. I also knew about some brilliantly places secret passages that could transport one from top to bottom floors in less than a minute. I had spent my time sitting on the ratty beds in the servants' quarters, watching year by year as wallpaper peeled and door hinges rusted.

The place had never been remodeled once, and rarely was a piece of furniture replaced. The Winkworth family took expenses very seriously, and hardly ever updated the servants' quarters until it was all on the brink of collapse.

When Queenie swung open the front door, the wood popped and creaked in a way that was so familiar to me it was almost painful to hear. The feeling of nostalgia was so great it was overpowering, and the next hour or so passed in a blur, made up of pats on the back and tight hugs from the old women who had held me as a toddler and considered me to be a promising young grandson, never mind that I was nearly forty years old.

Mr. Timothy Dalton, a valet who had worked alongside my uncle for the past few decades, greeted me warmly, and wasted no time in asking the question I was praying would remain unasked.

"Young Mr. Jeeves," he said with a grin, shaking my hand firmly. He often acted this way, as if I was a new adult every time we met. "Back from the big city. And how's your man Wooster? I expect he's probably having one hell of a time making small talk with Dame Winkworth."

I was aware of my step faltering slightly as I realized the casual way he referred to my employer. I presented him with as convincing a smile as I could muster. Usually I didn't have to smile so pleasantly at people, and the experience had become almost alien to me.

"He is in fine spirits, thank you." Not a lie, but I did not want to tell the real truth. "Mr. Wooster did not accompany me on this trip. He decided to give me my annual leave early."

Something like amusement but with a tang of trouble glinted in Dalton's eyes. "Is that so? Well, in that case we'll have to keep you on some close supervision, won't we?"

"Timothy, don't tease him," came a voice from behind me. My uncle, Charlie. I knew without turning. While a large, imposing man, he could never be said to be without kindness.

Charlie laid a heavy hand on my shoulder. "Welcome back, Reginald," he said, after giving Dalton a very pointed look. "If you would be so agreeable as to join me in my lair. We have a bit of catching up to do."

Charlie pushed me forward and lead me to his chambers, although I had visited enough that I could have gone there unassisted. Dalton gave an amused smirk as we turned away.

I hadn't noticed until then, but everyone else had disappeared, leaving the three of us alone in the foyer. It was close to dinnertime, and the workers were likely tending to their evening responsibilities.

* * *

My uncle Charlie was a collector of trinkets: small odds and ends he had picked up over the years while buttling. His bookshelves were lined with stones, folded paper birds, jewelry, and stacks of old photographs. The few books he had were filled with pressed flowers, the delicate petals poking out between the pages like an unevenly laid brick wall.

By presentation alone, Charlie did not seem the type of man to be sentimental. He was bald with large, thick eyebrows, and almost as tall as me. His "feudal spirit," as Mr. Wooster often said, was impeccable. Overall he was the image of a respectable butler-the type that idle rich would pay a fortune o keep employed.

Those who knew him intimately knew him as a man who was indeed all those things, but also as a trustworthy, loyal friend. I'd been acquainted with him for as long as I could remember, and he was nothing if not absurdly kind. Before my parents' deaths, he was my favorite relative to visit.

By the time my father had died of smallpox and my mother of a lonely heart, my two elder brothers were old enough to make it well on their own. They had moved out and were living their adult lives. I was a boy in my early teens, and as I had no relatives available to take me in, I was given the most suitable thing. Queenie was attending a girls' boarding school at the time, and with some references and pulled strings, I was allowed to stay there also, working as a page. On holidays, Queenie and I would return to Deverill Hall together and sit on the end of uncle Charlie's bed, telling him stories while he polished silver.

Not much had changed in Charlie's room since that time. The glass in the window was still splintered, the bed still covered in sheets that may have once been white but were now a sickly gray color. The floorboards creaked where they always had and the holes in the wall from old hanging paintings remained. It was at once wonderful and frightening, like stepping into a place where time stood still.

A fire was lit in the small fireplace; it was the room's only source of heat during the winter. All of it was so little, so shabby, something I might have forgotten while I lived quite comfortably in Berkeley Mansions. I was not blind to Mr. Wooster's above average kindness. He cared for his friends, was very polite, and it made him rather naive. He wasn't by any means stupid, but he cared so much for people who hardly gave him anything in return. I often wished for better for him, and wondered if he even realized he was practically being conned into friendships. I assume he was aware, as this fact might have been a large factor in his recent sadness.

Uncle Charlie sat in his old recliner, where he always sat when I visited. My mind was wandering as he lit up a cigar for me, and I had my eyes on the dancing flames of the fire. Charlie lit his own cigar, glancing at me as he did so.

"It's very early in the year for an annual leave, Reginald," he started. He was stating the obvious, trying to work me into a conversation.

"You didn't bring me here to discuss annual leave," I countered, playing his game.

He took a long drag on his cigar. "Of course I didn't. You aren't here on a vacation, that much is obvious. Something's happened."

"No. No, nothing has gone wrong. I'm not in any trouble. He told me to come here."

"And if he didn't give the order out of his own self interest, why did you listen?" He'd backed me into a corner, and he knew it. Secrets couldn't be kept about Charlie. He'd always find a way to make them come out sooner or later.

I tapped the cigar against my fingers absentmindedly, watching ash fall from the end and float to the ground. "I'm his manservant. Doing as he says is my job."

Charlie scoffed, rose from his chair, and walked to the window, peering out at the sunset dyeing the sky pink and orange. "Surely it's more than that. So he wanted you gone for a while. You could have gone anywhere, no matter what he recommended. It is not the place of the employer to dictate a valet's whereabouts while he's on leave."

He was right. No, it wasn't his place. Mr. Wooster would hardly force me to do anything I didn't want to. In that sense, he was a very lenient employer. The younger ones usually were, some even adopting newfangled ideas about calling servants by their given names. It was the older gentlemen one worried about. The Junior Ganymede is well acquainted with a few men who enjoyed manipulating their servants, seeing how far they could go.

"I don't know Mr. Wooster as well as you," he continued. "But I know enough. Word gets around. Apparently he's quite the hot topic among Dame Winkworth and her sisters." He noticed my pained expression at the memory of the incident with Augustus Fink-Nottle and chuckled. "Is he usually so much trouble?"

I allowed myself a quiet smile. "Worse. Mr. Wooster is young and frivolous, and I'm afraid too sweet-natured for his own good, though I do my best to look after him."

Charlie took a deep breath, his eyes still searching the low-hanging clouds."I think you may be rising beyond the typical standard of looking after."

I ran a hand down my face and snubbed out my cigar. There was no mistaking his meaning, or the truth of his words. "I'm not sure I can..." I trailed off as he pressed a glass of brandy into my hand, before I even had the chance to ask for one.

I drank it too fast and pressed the glass against my forehead. It was cool and my skin felt too hot despite the chill in the room that was barely dispersed by the fire. Charlie and I had spoken these types of conversations in the past, more times than I could count. They were all difficult, and would likely continue to be so for a long while. Possibly for the rest of our lives.

Charlie had returned to his chair and was lighting up another cigar. I could tell he was waiting for me to speak first. I hardened my resolve and took a shuddering breath. "He's acted so standoffish lately, even to me." I did not have to explain how open Mr. Wooster typically was with me. Charlie already knew all of it, perhaps more than he wanted to. "The holiday season is usually hard on him, but he has a great many friends to busy himself with."

I really had no idea how to progress from there. What should I say, and what parts had I better leave out? How could I explain a situation I only remotely understood myself?

"Thing are rather changing around him. His friends are starting families, getting married, moving on with their lives. The few relations he stays in contact with are impatient with him, and I fear he is being forgotten."

Charlie stayed quiet for a moment, letting me go on if I chose. "Not by you."

My stomach twisted. "No respectable gentleman wants their closest friend to be their own valet. I do not want to upset him, but I can never say no to him either. He told me to come here because he doesn't need me anymore."

"If that's what he told you, he was either lying or reacting to something."

"The words likely came forward in a rash fit of frustration, but how can I say he didn't mean them? The servants that aren't being fired these days are all jumping ship left and right. Even Queenie is convinced she and her constable fiance are a vow ceremony away from total independence."

"We aren't talking about Queenie, Reginald. We're talking about your gentleman." He reminded me of what Dalton had sad earlier, the both of them insisting on such a casual reference.

I didn't think it was possible to feel any more on edge, but I managed. "He isn't my gentleman. He's...he's not mine."

Charlie looked me up and down. "No, rather not. And yet you are so content to let yourself be his."

Our eyes met from across the room. I took his meaning. It ached terribly.

"Nothing else would be proper."

He sneered, though it wasn't directed at me. "A great many things wouldn't be proper. The fact that men like you and I exist isn't proper."

"Then, to you, the difference is what? A relationship between a master and a servant, a relationship between two men... Do you condone both, but only under approved circumstances?"

"The difference is that you've had other masters before. The difference is that the men out there who bed their chambermaids and leave them in the dust do it because they understand their own power. Inverts have been doing it right for centuries because we see one another as equals, not as challenges.

"The chance for true happiness does not come to all of us, and those of us who do have it must be grateful."

I was tired, more tired than I had been in a long time. My heart had moved from my chest into my skull and was pounding away behind my forehead. "Some of us value our safety. I refuse to kiss the Wildean grave and die alone in a prison cell."

Charlie's voice raised slightly. "By Heaven, boy, do you really think a man of that age and social status would go to such lengths to prevent a wedding? If he is as lonely as you say he is, why has he not married, or found a woman to fill his time?" He stopped, then considered his next words carefully. "He's waiting on you, Reginald. He needs you, and I rather think you need him as well."

That was far too much. I stood suddenly. "I cannot let him risk his life to be with me. He has money, a reputation. He's about to enter the house of lords. He has too much to lose." I pulled on my coat and hat, avoiding looking at Charlie as I did.

"I think it would be best if I returned to London tomorrow. To turn in my resignation." I didn't say anything more, just walked as fast as I could out the door.

Unfortunately, I still heard Charlie's sigh as he said with remorse, "By Jove, Reg. I hope you learn to take care of yourself someday."

* * *

Daphne Winkworth's daughter, Gertrude, who was taking a walk in the garden with her new husband Claude Potter-Pirbright, approached me as I was leaving the servants' quarters and invited me to join her family for dinner. I thanked her, but declined. She seemed to understand that all was not right with me, and let me be, though she looked concerned.

Mr. Potter-Pirbright was less attuned to the situation and clapped a hand roughly on my shoulder. "I say, Jeeves, everything alright? Bertie hasn't gotten himself into a muddle again, has he? The old ass."

I attempted a thankful smile and paid no attention to how clearly false it appeared. "Thank you sir, I can assure you nothing is amiss. I am here alone on annual leave to visit my family."

Mr. Potter-Pirbright tried to continue the conversation, but Gertrude interrupted him loudly, pulling him by the arm and saying how they had better get inside before it got too late.

I tipped my hat to her as they retreated, and once I was sure they were out of sight I let my posture droop and I hurried to my chambers before anyone else attempted to make small talk with me.

I was donning my pajamas when something outside the window chanced to catch my eye. I inspected further and saw my uncle Charlie in the dying light, standing on the grass with Timothy Dalton by his side, the two of them leaning much closer than was necessary. That alone told me enough. I averted my eyes and closed the drapes, wondering if I could forget about it.

I hardly slept that night. The bed was not my own, and Mr. Wooster was not snoring down the hall, and there was a pain beneath my ribs that was making it difficult to breathe. I rested my hand atop the ache and wondered how I could return home to a man I pined for so recklessly and feared so greatly.

* * *

I awoke at the same time I always did, just as the sun touched the horizon. My mind's first instinct was to prepare a cup of tea for Mr. Wooster, then his breakfast, until I registered that I was not at home, but Deverill Hall. I felt instantly sick as I recalled the events of the night before. I did not want to return to Berkeley Mansions. All I'd find waiting for me was a household that was ready to move on from me. Staying at Deverill was not much more attractive. I couldn't sit around and avoid Charlie and Dalton and Queenie.

The quality of sleep I'd gotten was absolutely terrible, and I would have liked to rest longer, as there was no reason for me to be up so early without anyone to take care of, but my body refused to comply. I laid tangled in the sheets and blankets, staring up at the ceiling and wondering how on earth I could go on working for another man. Perhaps I could retire from valeting. It was only thing I was trained for and indeed the only thing I was good at, but it would quite possibly ruin me to be just another ordinary valet.

I was aware of my own selfish motives in that thought. Although it was unexpected, Mr. Wooster's appreciation of my work gave me a glint of satisfaction. More than a glint. I wasn't in it for the money, despite what many said. There were employers who would likely pay me three times as much for my services, but they would never stand in front of me and tell me I was a marvel, a wonder, a miracle, and every other name that made me long to call Mr. Wooster by such dear titles.

He was too gentle, and I had lost myself in him, in the security of a man who was too busy doing nothing to do something. I was fully aware I was taking advantage of him, and yet I hardly ever wanted to stop. Mr. Wooster was not stupid, but he was a perfect fool. I rather loved him for it. I should have left him as soon as I realized I could no longer regard him as someone I merely shared a house with and got a paycheck from.

What worsened it all is that he had grown fond of me too-in a natural way, of course. He regarded me as a close acquaintance, but my inclinations towards him were surely only mine. Over time our relationship had grown less frosty and more comfortable, and I found myself doing the most irresponsible things, things I would have never done if he hadn't been the one to convince me. I let my feudal spirit fade when we were alone and in good spirits, and it was clear to see how happy it made him, something I never fully understood. What was his motive in the first place? Were all his other friends really so terrible that he had to resort to the company of a servant?

These ponderings were halted as a loud knock sounded on the chamber door. I pulled on a brown dressing gown and opened it slightly to find Mr. Potter-Pirbright looking a bit anxious.

"Good morning, sir," I greeted quietly. "Is there something I can assist you with?"

"Right-ho, Jeeves," he returned, somewhat absentmindedly, like he wasn't paying much attention. "I've been on the phone with Bertie."

This revelation sent a shock straight through me. Was he really so desperate to get rid of me that he sent someone else to deliver the message for him? I might not have wanted to return yet, but I couldn't stand to not see him again.

Mr. Potter-Pirbright didn't seem to notice my discomfort. "Bertie may be a stickler at times, but he's a true pal of mine and I hate to see him upset. The fact is, Jeeves, he's not doing well. Not doing well at all, actually."

* * *

After Mr. Potter-Pirbright explained the situation to the best of his abilities, he sent for a cab while I dressed as quickly as possible. According to Richard Little, Mr. Wooster hadn't been answering telegrams or calls, not from any of his friends or family. When someone eventually had the good sense to go and check on him in person, they found him at home on the floor, "having a type of fit or something," as Mr. Little put it.

The rest of the details as to what Mr. Wooster's condition was were not told to me, only that he had been admitted to Sir Roderick Glossop's clinic as per request of his Aunt Dalhia.

Mr. Potter-Pirbright kindly sent me on my way, and wished me luck.

"Wish I could see him myself," he told me, shaking my hand firmly. "I have to stay here with Gertrude. Wouldn't do to make a scene about it."

The drive to the clinic was the hardest part yet. I had absolutely no idea what to expect. To my knowledge, Mr. Wooster had no medical problems, despite whatever Mrs. Gregson said about him being highly disturbed. This illness that had befallen him was either very serious or nothing to worry about at all, though it was difficult to convince my racing heart and sweating palms.

Mrs. Travers and her husband were waiting for me in the lobby of the clinic, Dalhia wringing her hands nervously while Tom paced the floor. Mrs. Travers grabbed my sleeve as soon as she saw me and began hauling me up the stairs. Her eyes were slightly red and her hair was disheveled, though none of her roughness was drained.

"Where have you been!" she muttered, almost speaking more to herself than me. "Where have you been! All night he was asking for you. Everytime he woke up, 'where's Jeeves? where's Jeeves? I need to see Jeeves.'"

I prayed she was exaggerating. Although I had seen my employer in his bad moments, nothing like this had ever happened, and I wasn't sure I'd be enough for him. He thought me too much of a hero.

As we reached the top of the stairs, I heard the most heartbreaking cries. My stomach dropped lower and lower as we approached the room and they grew louder, until Mrs. Travers opened the door and pushed me inside.

Mr. Wooster lay in the bed, and though I could not fully see him, I knew his skin was pale and pasty. Angela Travers stood over him, brushing his hair back from his forehead and hushing him gently. He was making awful wails, too forceful for his lungs to support, and his breaths came out heaving.

"It's going to be alright Bertie, just keep breathing. You'll be just fine."

He clutched at her with shaking hands. "Angela. I want to see Jeeves," he pleaded, his voice scratchy between sobs. My mouth went dry. I felt a bit broken as I stepped further inside and Angela turned to look at me, her eyes full of unshed tears and relief.

She motioned me over frantically, trying to calm Mr. Wooster as she did. "It's okay, Bertie, he's here. Jeeves is here now, alright?"

As I stood next to the bed, I saw that he was shaking terribly all over, crying so much his eyes couldn't open all the way. Angela shoved me closer, looked back and forth between the two of us, gave a small pained cry, and fled from the room.

"Jeeves?" Mr. Wooster gasped, grabbing my hands tightly. I held him with just as much vigor. "I'm so sorry, Jeeves."

I could only guess what he was apologizing for, while at the same time cursing him for not thinking of himself at a time like this. "It's alright, sir. I'm right here." I whispered even though we were alone together. I had never seen him cry before, and it was more shocking to me than it should have been.

He released one of my hands to wipe at his cheeks, but the tears were falling so heavily he was accomplishing hardly anything. I retrieved the handkerchief from my coat pocket and leaned forward to do it myself, trying to calm him any way I could. He let me dry his face, his sobs subsiding slightly. As soon as I was finished he gripped my hands again, like he couldn't bear to be left alone.

"Sir, what happened?" I asked quietly, hoping the question wouldn't set him crying again.

It didn't, luckily. He couldn't catch his breath, though, and his words were broken and frantic. "I'm sorry, Jeeves. I'm sorry."

His eyes were closed tightly still, whether by choice or necessity I didn't know. The shaking slowly stopped and he took a few more deep breaths. "Don't leave again," he begged.

"I won't," I promised, unable to keep the tremor out of my voice.

He nodded over and over, trying to process the words. He had barely breathed out a thanks when he fell asleep completely, still holding my hands against his chest. I moved to rub his scalp gently, coaxing him deeper into slumber. I assumed they had already given him medication to make him tired, and were trying to get him calm enough to actually let it work.

The door burst open again and Mrs. Travers rushed in suddenly, startling me out of the fog. I was about to let go of Mr. Wooster and take a good many steps backwards when Mrs. Travers waved me down impatiently. 

"Oh, sit down, sit down. You aren't leaving now, surely. The young blighter needs you," she croaked, dabbing at her eyes with a black handkerchief. Her words, though harsh, carried none of her usual venom. Clearly she wasn't getting the amusement she normally did when insulting her nephew. 

Her words made me think back to the night before, when Charlie had said the same thing: he needs you, and I rather think you need him as well. It sent my stomach turning. Mrs. Travers, however polite she had been in the past, viewed me as more of a helpful object to have around. From a professional standpoint, she was entirely right. It was my duty to be by Mr. Wooster's side. But I didn't come only as a valet, because when Mr. Wooster woke up again, I wanted him to wake up to a friend. 

Mrs. Travers approached the bedside slowly, staring down at her nephew like she couldn't believe it was really him. I understood-it was so seldom any of us saw him without a smile on his face, or at least a burst of youthful energy. Though it was his face we saw, he seemed an impostor to us. 

"He longed for you most devastatingly," she told me, wringing her handkerchief anxiously. She spoke this so informally, like I was a close friend, perhaps even family. I could almost entertain the notion that this was a doddering old woman addressing me, not thinking clearly in her grief, if only I hadn't known her so well. 

I chewed at my bottom lip. "Miss, I hardly think it appropriate-"

"Oh, hush, Jeeves!" she cried, giving me a pointed stare that silenced me instantly. She sniffed loudly and rubbed her nose with the handkerchief. "Too polished for your own good, that's what I've always said. You're the closest friend he's got, you have to understand that."

"He has a great number of friends, all of desirable status. Why should they be less brotherly to him than I?" I was sulking, I knew it. 

Mrs. Travers scoffed. "Honestly, you're as bad as he is. If you want the acceptable answer, it's because you don't demand things of him. He's too easy to take advantage of, and I know we've all been rotten to him..." she paused to wipe her eyes. "All of us except you."

I dared to ask what I'd been dying to know. "And... the unacceptable answer?" 

She straightened her back. "I should have thought you'd figured it out by now," she said simply, but not unkindly, and floated out of the room, closing the door quietly behind her. And for a moment, it was like she hadn't been there at all. 

* * * 

For the next five hours or so I sat by his bedside, reading whatever novels I had packed with me. I would have been grateful for the distraction, if only I could be distracted. The words went from one ear out the other, and I understood almost none of what I read. I kept glancing up at Mr. Wooster to see how his condition was progressing. An orderly had replaced the needle and fluid not too long ago, and some of the pigment had returned to his skin. 

One orderly assigned to the room was an older woman with an accent that sounded like she had lived in America for one part of her life and England the other. She was loud and talkative and strangely comforting despite it. 

"Gave us a bit of a scare, he did," she said to me while giving him more fluid. "We thought we'd have to wait for him to pass out. Extreme dehydration-all that crying, you know." 

I nodded numbly and didn't respond beyond that. 

She gave me a twinkling grin. "He's lucky to have a chum like you here, though. It's the best thing for a sick patient."

Sick. "What exactly is wrong with him? Was it a seizure?" 

She glanced around the room and said to me quietly, "I heard the doctors talking earlier, and they said they'd never seen anything like it in someone so young. Worried himself sick, he did. According to Glossop, he got himself all stressed and his body couldn't take it." 

My brow furrowed as I stared at him, still fast asleep. I thanked her and she left. This new information almost made the situation more confusing than it had been before. Clearly this was something that he had to have been worrying over for a long time. Is that what was making him so distant? It was a rare occurrence that he did not come to me with any problems he had.

Unless, as I suspected early on, I was the problem. Many of Mr. Wooster's troubles with engagement originated from the fact that he was too well-mannered to turn a lady down. Was he then also too afraid to fire me? He was bold enough in matters of white mess jackets and straw hats, but those were all meaningless little jabs we had liked to poke at one another with. Usually, we worked together in harmony. Was all that really so close to ending? 

My attention was captured as Mr. Wooster turned onto his side, the first real movement he'd shown since first falling asleep. His eyes pulled open slowly, then he blinked a few times, trying to focus his vision. "Jeeves?" he said quietly, his voice ragged. He squinted at me, as if I were a mile away and not a few feet away. 

He held out a hand to me and I took it instantly, without thinking. He laced his fingers with mine lazily, and I recalled the orderly telling me he'd likely be out of sorts for a while while the medicine wore off. He might not even remember this later, and I felt troubled about approaching him in this way while he wasn't at his best. 

His lips twitched. Not a smile, but it was something. "Hello, old thing," he murmured, squeezing my hand lightly before he seemed to realize he was holding it in the first place and dropped it suddenly, pulling both of his arms against his chest and curling in on himself. "I've been bally awful to you, Jeeves," he mumbled, his eyes slipping shut. "You should be at Deverill Hall with your family." 

"There will be other times to see them, sir. I came of my own volition when I heard you were ill. Mr. Potter-Pirbright was informed only last night."

"Catsmeat," he whispered. "He would try and drag you down here, wouldn't he?" 

"As I said, sir-"

"Yes, yes," he said, his voice torn but returning partially to the dialect I was used to. "Your own whatsit. Do you think they'll let us return home tomorrow?" 

I tried to swallow around the lump in my throat. "Actually, sir, I planned to give my notice, as I fee it would be the best choice for us both." 

He sat up frantically, his body dragging a bit from the lingering medicine. He tried to speak loudly, but his throat protested and he was stuck yelling at me in an unfortunate whisper. "You can't, Jeeves. I need you." 

There were those words again, confronting me head-on this time. His eyes were wide and blue as ever, and he looked so frightened I nearly took back my announcement right then. 

"I know I treated you in a bad way, but I'm sorry about all that." He tried to explain it to me in vain, as his mind was still moving very slowly. "If you'll let me fix it..."

I pushed down gently on his shoulder, making him lay back again. "You mustn't exert yourself, sir." I did not meet his eyes. It would have undone me entirely. "Please get some rest, sir," I instructed, then turned on my heel and left the room without a glance backwards.

* * * 

I happened to run into Richard Little on the stairway. He was holding a cartoonishly large bouquet of flowers, which apparently were a gift to Mr. Wooster from the members of the Drones Club. 

He tipped his hat to me. "What-ho, Jeeves," he said cheerfully. "Bertie awake yet?"

I gave a polite nod in response. "I believe so, Mr. Little. His room is the last door on the right, top floor."

"Jolly good." He continued walking, then turned and added, "Decent of you to be here, by the way. He was wanting to see you." A shadow passed over his face. "When it happened, when I got there anyway... It was awful, Jeeves. He wouldn't let any of us touch him."

He stepped down a few stairs so he could talk quietly to me. "He was on the kitchen floor, smashed plates and cups everywhere. I have no idea what he was trying to do, but he was pretty badly cut up. Dashed odd thing, isn't it?" He said this in a manner which implied that he didn't find it very odd at all, rather something expected but unfortunate. 

He bid me a solemn farewell. I stood and watched him trot up the rest of the stairs until he had disappeared round the corner into another hallway. I took in a deep breath. Until that moment, I had no clue of where I was planning on going, but Mr. Little's words impressed me that I should return to the flat temporarily.

Mr. and Mrs. Travers, as well as Angela, had all left, and I saw no one else in the lobby I recognized. I expected Mrs. Gregson to drop by eventually to yell at the hospital staff and offer a handful of scathing remarks to Mr. Wooster. I did not know whether she would really be so uncaring as to assume her usual cold demeanor in light of the serious situation, but I resolved that I should return quickly in the case that she did come. I shuddered to think what she might say to Mr. Wooster if I wasn't there to shoo her out.

I hailed a cab and spent the ride in deep thought. Mr. Wooster had assured me he would be fine enough on his own, a statement which had proved true in the past. There were other instances when he'd not hired a replacement valet and spent a few days on his own. Save for some mild troubles, all of which were not out of the blue, he remained wholly unharmed. Then again, we'd never had such a falling out since that unfortunate incident with his banjolele, and I would have considered that a very mild disagreement compared to this. He had spoken so callously to me that fateful morning. There was none of that bite present now. 

As the cab pulled up to the kerb next to Berkeley Mansions, the building seemed more imposing than ever, not like the comfortable home it had always been. Something unknown had tainted it, and I could hardly help but wonder if the building was mourning Mr. Wooster's absence.

Nothing in the flat was out of place. The kitchen was naturally the first place I checked. Of course, the broken china had been cleared away already, and there were almost no signs that there had been an accident at all. The china cabinet was still opened, and with a glance inside I understood what had happened.

In my carelessness, I had placed the china on the top shelf, when normally I would keep it lower down. The top shelf was an adequate height for me, but much too high up for Mr. Wooster, who was rather four inches shorter than me. Guilt flooded my chest. If I had paid more attention, we could have avoided this situation entirely. Typically I wasn't so mindless, but I remembered that I had washed the china that morning I was to leave for Deverill Hall. I was distracted waiting for Mr. Wooster to see me off, and in my moment of nervous anticipation thought nothing of it. 

A cup of tea sat alone on top of the stove. I crossed the room to inspect it and felt terribly sick when I realized it was the same tea I'd brewed for him before I'd left. He hadn't drunk any of it, just left it to sit. I poured the old tea into the sink and watched the amber liquid swirl down the drain. The sight of it made the knots in my stomach tie themselves even tighter. I couldn't recall the last time I was so mixed up.

* * * 

Mr. Wooster was released the next morning, as he had predicted. As there wasn't much wrong with him besides aching muscles and bandaged up cuts, they let him go with some words of encouragement, a bottle of painkillers, and strict instructions for rest.

At the clinic, he had been wearing a hospital dressing gown which had sleeves that cuffed around the wrists. Because of the coverage, I hadn't seen any of the cuts. Or rather, the gauze and tape covering them. The staff permitted me to dress him in a plain tweed suit before we departed, and the sight of him shirtless, white bandages wrapped all around his arms and abdomen was extremely painful. While I couldn't see any of the actual injuries, the placement and security of the bandages told me they likely ran very deep.

His range of motion was still somewhat limited, not only by the cuts but also by the strains on his muscles, a common symptom when the body undergoes a shock or stress. He didn't speak to me during the ordeal and kept his eyes trained at the ground. Being so close to him was agonizing, worse with the knowledge that he was hurting and there was nothing I could do to ease his pain.

We continued this bout of silence until we had returned home and I was helping him out of the cab. He stood too quickly and his legs couldn't catch him. He grabbed onto me in a panic and I did my best to keep my hands away from the worst of his injuries while I held him up.

"Thank you, old fruit," he mumbled to me as he regained his balance, then put a decent amount of distance between our bodies and continued ahead of me to the flat. 

It wasn't until we were inside and I was pulling off his coat that I realized it wasn't his coat at all-it was mine. I had somehow overlooked it until just then, and although it wasn't at all professional of me, I informed him of it.

A ghost of a smile appeared on his face, nowhere near enough to chase away the sadness that had been lingering in his eyes for days now. "Must've taken the wrong one by accident. Apologies, and all that." 

It was a very weak excuse, but I discussed the matter no further. 

He sat carefully onto the sofa and waved away my offers of mixing him a drink or restorative. I hovered nearby regardless, wondering how many things I could possibly attempt to do for him before he became angry. He even refused to let me dress him in something more comfortable. 

"You've got me all dolled up anyhow, not much point in changing now," he insisted. "No, you needn't worry. You may go polish the silver again or flip through a good old volume of Spinoza, or whatever it is you do around here all day." 

I was hesitant just to leave him, especially with nothing to do, so I made one last feeble attempt to aid him in any way. "Would you like me to collect a few of your mystery novels, sir?" 

He gave me a look that was not fully a glare, but certainly not friendly, either. "Now, Jeeves."

I did know better than to challenge him, so with a reproachful nod I sank back into the kitchen and tipped back a few brandy and sodas that were entirely brandy. 

* * * 

Around dinnertime I wandered back into the living room to find Mr. Wooster sitting at his piano bench. How long he had been there, I couldn't have said. He wasn't playing music, only running the tips of his fingers lightly over the ivory keys wistfully, as if the instrument were an invention he was laying eyes on for the first time. Something about the scene was so intimate and domestic it felt wrong to intrude. I was about to leave the room quietly when he spotted me standing in the doorway. He looked at me questioningly.

I cleared my throat. "Pardon me, sir, will you be dining in tonight?" 

He touched a key too roughly and a loud F note shoved its way into the silence between us. The sound seemed to jar him, and he leaned away from the piano. "I shouldn't think I'd like to eat at all. You may have the night off."

"I could not advise it, sir, considering your condition."

He stood and paced around the room, nearly bursting with nervous energy. "I'm fine, Jeeves. Just tip-top. You may have the night off," he repeated, leaving no room for debate. He stalked into his bed chambers and closed the door a bit too harshly, perhaps more than he meant to. 

I supposed all that was left for me to do was return to my "lair," as Mr. Wooster was fond of calling it, and occupy myself for the rest of the night when a sharp knock came from the front door.

Jarvis, the doorman, was outside. He held out a small envelope. "Letter for you, Mr. Jeeves." 

I halted. "Not for Mr. Wooster?" I asked.

He glanced at the writing. "If it is, the sender has an interesting way of spelling Wooster." He handed it over to me and tipped his hat. "Speaking of the young man, Mr. Jeeves, we're glad to have him back in one piece. And you, too. He was quite out of sorts without you." 

Fortunately, he bid me goodnight and disappeared, making me grateful I hadn't needed to come up with a reply. 

He was right about the letter-inked on the front was Reginald Jeeves in an elegant but sensible handwriting belonging assuredly to my Uncle Charlie. We hadn't conversed at all since I left the servants' quarters two nights ago. I'd left for the hospital in such a rush I hadn't the chance to speak to him. Remembering that night stirred up the memory of Charlie and Dalton on the lawn, their heads nearly resting together and they leaned towards one another in the darkness. My stomach turned as I stared down at the cream parchment of the envelope and prayed that Charlie wouldn't be so indiscreet as to discuss such matters through the mail, as it was extremely risky should anyone other than the sender or the intended recipient happen to open it. 

I retired to my rooms presently. As I walked down the hall I paused briefly by Mr. Wooster's door. No sounds came from within and the lights appeared to be turned off. I wondered if he was wearing his suit to sleep in or if he had donned his pajamas himself, and how much pain it might have caused him. Not wishing to be discovered lingering outside the master's door, I continued to my chambers. 

I sat at the edge of my bed and opened the letter. In graceful script it read: 

Reginald- 

I apologize for the state of affairs we parted in two nights prior. My conduct was highly unseemly, and I anticipate our next meeting will be much more cordial. 

I heard the news of Mr. Wooster's accident and send my regards accordingly, as do the rest of the staff at Deverill Hall. Mr. and Mrs. Potter-Pirbright were both put out exceedingly, as you are likely aware of. For any excess distress this incident has caused you, I apologize again. Miss Gertrude also informed me of the backwards attitude Mr. Wooster has been adopting as of late, and I understand my words may have been insensitive. 

I'm sure you're quite tired of hearing this from me, but I feel I must reiterate my point. While I can't expect you to step outside whatever walls you've got up, you must be aware of your significance in the lives of many, a fact I'm sure this recent accident has brought to light. A permanent separation due to poor communication would be a most tragic occurrence. I always hoped for your prosperity, however unconventionally it may present itself. I urge you to think deeply on the matter. 

\- Charles Silversmith

Postscript: Mr. Dalton sends a cheerful hullo and asks that you visit again soon. 

I laid back on top of the bedclothes and inspected the ceiling, and thought out all the worst outcomes a confession could bring about. Would Mr. Wooster even fully understand my motives if I were to try? It's true that I had once referred to my employer as "mentally negligible," although much had changed since that time and I did not like to consider him a fool, no matter how naive he seemed. 

Realistically, he may not even be aware men like me even existed beyond a fearful whisper never found in polite company. Plenty viewed us this way, like we were monsters hiding under beds-fictional things children were warned of, but which eventually perished once adulthood was reached. 

Mr. Wooster was so warmhearted, demanding my release from his service may be the most he would be inclined to do. And without him, how should I hope to live? 

Then there was the possibility-the very otherworldly, frightening yet alluring possibility-that he was an invert too. And if he were, I might perish at the revelation. Loving, persistent man he was, he likely wouldn't rest until I had been reborn from the ashes. 

If I had to forget him, then forget I would. Professionalism was a mask which I had spent a lifetime perfecting, and if I attempted it, the mask could become the man. All outcomes would likely be painful. The deciding factor was whether or not there would be peace beyond that. 

Eventually I must have slipped into sleep, because I found myself blinking away Hypnos' spell at the sound of a window opening in another room, then the gentle whistling of the January breeze, a pleasant enough sound to listen to (permitting it stay at a calm speed) but was frightfully chilly to be stuck in the middle of. 

I doubted a burglar could reach such a precariously placed window, and would no doubt have been spotted before he could make it very far, as the building was in the middle of a busting section of the city. The most logical answer was that Mr. Wooster had opened the window, although that in and of itself wasn't logical at all.

I hadn't taken of any of the uniform yet, and my shoes and jacket were still on, however rumpled they were. I summoned whatever bit of courage I could find and pushed open my bedroom door quietly, floating into the sitting room as indistinctly as I could given the storm of thoughts that was still crashing around in my skull and currently sitting unhappily beneath my parietal bone. 

None of the lamps were lit aside from the streetlights gleaming, muted through the window. Mr. Wooster leaned against the wall, staring down at the street below. I couldn't process any details, but I saw he was wearing a blue dressing gown and his brown bed-shoes. I wished privately I could have seen his face in that moment, to know what he was thinking as he stood there. 

I made no noise as I approached behind him, but in a way he could always sense me, and he knew when I was present. He looked up at me before turned his head away sharply. I thought I saw him run a hand across his eyes quickly. 

He aimed his eyes down at the street again and didn’t say a word. Perhaps he indeed couldn’t. 

I cleared my throat and began to speak, the words sticking in my throat like old treacle. “If you wish me to turn in my resignation to-morrow, sir, that could be arranged.” 

He leaned back against the wall, his head hitting the wallpaper with a soft thunk. “No, Jeeves, I bally well do not wish it.”

“Would you prefer, then, if I stayed?” 

He was worrying at the fabric of his dressing gown. “No,” he said, sounding conflicted. 

I wondered if this conversation would have made more sense if we’d been having it when we were both fully awake. “Sir?”

He sighed and flicked the lamp next to him on, filling the room with a dim amber glow. The position of the light cast shadows beneath his eyes, making his cheeks look hollow and gaunt. “Jeeves, if I could have you forever, I would. If I could wake up and think you have half a rat’s ass about pressing my trousers and making tea, I don’t think I’d ever let you leave me. But I won’t sit around and make you do anything you don’t want to. You’re free to go as you please.” 

I considered stepping closer to him, but I decided better of it, lest he feel like a caged-in animal. “If you’ll have me, sir, I do not intend to leave your service. If you have need of me, I will give no objections.” 

“Well of course I need you, Jeeves. You know what a blustering fool I am. Can hardly cook up some eggs and b. Without nearly setting the whole flat aflame.” His voice sounded bitter, like he was reprimanding himself. “But I could learn to do all those things. Be one’s own valet. But even if I didn’t need a man around to iron my socks and brush invisible lint off my jacket every five seconds, I’d still need you.”

He stared at me like he was waiting for some grand reaction. I felt frozen to the spot. I couldn't give him the performance he wanted from me. Was that the missing piece, then? Did he need an audience? I knew he wasn't acting in vanity. Nearly all his life he'd been at the mercy of those around him, relatives who took him from house to house as if he were such a spectacle of a human. He was used to acting out and shocking people, but it was clear that wasn't the way he really was. I'd seen him in his moments of vulnerability-caring for his friends, waking up from nightmares, laughing carelessly at some particularly humorous thing he had read in the morning paper. 

He grunted in frustration and pushed past me, walking with heavy steps into his bathroom. I followed after a moment of hesitation. A momentous change was about to take place, and I could sense it. 

When I caught up with him, he was standing in the mirror, trying to patch a clean square of gauze onto a cut on his forearm. He tried over and over to fold down the edges with only the fingers of his other hand, to no avail. 

"Allow me, sir," I pleaded quietly, holding the wrist of his injured arm firmly but with care and pulling it away from him, smoothing down the corners of the gauze myself. 

He watched me with a kind of wonder. "Jeeves," he said, his voice laced with life. "I feel like I'm reaching for you and you aren't there." 

I continued to hold his hand and stared directly into his eyes, something I felt like I hadn't done in ages. "I haven't taken very good care of you. I may still be learning." 

His eyes grew bluer by the second. "A journey for two, do you think?" He was smiling, nearly breathless. 

"Precisely, Bertram," I whispered, finally scooping those last dollops of hope I had so frantically searched for. 

We reached for one another at the same time. The world was once again filled with an extraordinary amount of color, and even the building seemed to sigh with relief. 

* * * 

We greeted one another the next morning with broad smiles. He accepted the tea I had brewed for him, and when he went to take it from me, pulled me down even further to smack a good morning kiss against my lips. 

"What sort of a day is it, Jeeves?" he asked, taking a long sip and leaning back against the headboard to watch me putter around the room. 

I pulled open the curtains and let sunshine seep into the room. His hair turned golden in the light, and I must admit I adored the look he was watching me with. 

Promise was on the horizon. 

* * * 

Dear Uncle Charlie, 

Your letter was received in good health. Mr. Wooster is making a favorable recovery and by next week will be able to accompany me to Deverill Hall for a few days. 

As per your advice, the two of us sorted through our involvement. It seems we are beginning to understand one another in a much clearer sense. I have no doubt the household will be significantly more restful now that we have found our commonalities together. 

I must also apologize for the rash way in which I acted the last time we saw one another. I now understand the significance of what you were attempting to tell me I look forward to seeing you again. As I would wish nothing for you but the same good fortune, I ask that you give Mr. Dalton my approval. 

-Reginald Jeeves

Postscript: Bertram sends his love to you both 

**Author's Note:**

> my longest ever fic is a jeeves and wooster fic and i am not even ashamed. i think my writing slaps even though i make up words and metaphors and i never fact check anything ever. someday i will be punished for my hubris.
> 
> also yeah the summary is just lyrics from the scarlet pimpernel because I can't think of anything else right now and also because I'm in a production of the scarlet pimpernel and today I spent three hours teaching a viennese waltz to a bunch of people who have never danced ballroom before and I am So Tired


End file.
